As I faced the pews, to my surprise, I started to speak quietly of a miscarriage ten years ago at Christmas. I’d begun to bleed from a three-month pregnancy. I remembered two things. From a wheelchair, I’d looked at a jar of fetal fluid the doctor had left on the nurse’s counter as evidence. It was upsetting to see. Soon after, it was time to be released, and I could not reach Paul. Emotional, I called a neighbor who arrived just as my husband did.
I was still awake this cold night, propped up on bed pillows, when I saw a young boy’s face in the upper left pane of a window. I had a feeling of his looking like Paul’s family with blondish hair and fair reddish skin.
I’m told the soul has not entered a fetus at three months. Whatever is true, I felt this young boy’s face had been called by the lit candle, perhaps to absolve and complete. I could only wonder. I had a good feeling in my heart and hoped for peace where this memory had been loosed from.
My realization is, "Grief will lie in stillness, until it sees a face peering at it willing to say good bye to the energy of holding, to clear space for the energy of new unfolding."